


And Stars May Collide

by roseandheather



Category: Code Black (TV)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, spoilers for 1x13
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-21
Updated: 2016-01-21
Packaged: 2018-05-15 07:07:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 922
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5776237
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/roseandheather/pseuds/roseandheather
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Shaken and grieving, Neal and Christa find peace - and find a way forward. SPOILERS for 1x13.</p>
            </blockquote>





	And Stars May Collide

"I know, I know. Shhh. I _know._ "

He touches his forehead to hers because it's all he can do, because he can't see her like this, breaking apart in his arms, and _not_ reach out, not touch, not _hold._ Her lashes are damp against his temples and for a moment, despite her distress - despite grief, despite anguish, despite _everything_ \- her scent drugs his senses and he can't even breathe with it, with wanting her.

It feels like there's never been a moment when he hasn't wanted her.

There's a certain kind of poetry, he thinks a bit giddily, in the way they move in concert; she leans in and he leans down and then his lips are on hers, light like the first winter snowfall, but that doesn't lessen the sheer power of the touch. He kisses her again, and again and again, short ( _too short, much, much too short_ ) but swift and sweet. He aches with tenderness down to his bones, wants to gather her up, gather her in, unbreak her heart and cry her tears himself so she doesn't have to. She's trembling like a half-broke filly, like a wild doe - fear, anguish, grief, self-loathing, or maybe all at once.

When they pull apart at last it's with his hands gripping her waist, and he wonders ( _please, let him be wrong_ ) if she just needed the comfort, if anyone would do - but she tilts forward and hides her face in his shoulder and he draws her close, and closer still, until he has one arm around her waist and one hand shielding the vulnerable nape of her neck and she sighs and sags into him, tears muffled by his shoulder and the sturdy cotton of his scrubs.

"Neal," she whispers raggedly, still trembling, and he rubs her back, up and down her spine, slow steadying circles.

"I've got you," he murmurs in her ear, and the feel of her relaxing under his touch at the words gives him more hope than he's had in years. "I've got you, Christa. It's all right, darling. I'm here."

"Don't let me go," she murmurs, and his arms tighten around her involuntarily.

"I'm right - " he starts, but she cuts him off, fingers fisting against his back in the fabric of his scrub top.

"No," she says, her face still hidden in his shoulder, and when she looks up to meet his eyes at last her own are bluer than ever and so vulnerable they break his heart all over again. "Neal, _don't let me go._ "

In a moment, in an instant, he understands, and thinks that maybe this is why he's waited, why he's been so careful with her - that he knows casual is not a possibility, not with Christa. That he is all in or he'd best stay clear, lest he be yet one more person in a long line of those who'd abandoned her. She has seen her life broken down to bedrock and built it back up again - has done it grieving her child, her marriage, and the death of all her dreams.

No. No, he's not going to let her go.

"Christa," he says, as steadily as he can ( _which isn't very steady at all_ ), and holds her eyes, drops his shields, lets her see the truth he's tried so hard to hide. "I don't ever want to stop holding you."

Understanding dawns and her eyes fill again, spilling over - but these are good tears, happy tears, and when he folds her into his arms this time she is laughing through her tears. "Oh, thank God," she whispers, and he shakes his head, runs a hand over the sleek softness of her hair.

"I'm not playing games, Christa," he murmurs to her, and shivers as her hand comes up to card through his hair. "I'm in this with you. Every bit."

She just nods, exhausted, and he hugs her even closer. Slowly her sobs change again, back to grief, to anguish, to doubt and self-recrimination - but there is something just a bit easier in the fit of her body against his, as though now she can lean on him fully. And lean she does, great racking sobs that shake her from head to toe, as she cries herself out against his shoulder.

He cannot bear this storm for her. But he can be her anchor, and that no one will take from him.

At last the sobs run dry, and reluctant though he is to release her, he lets her pull away, lets his hands settle again at her waist. She doesn't go far, touching her forehead to his in an echo of their earlier position, and smiles - faint, but real, and growing brighter. "Thank you," she whispers.

He doesn't answer with words - just reaches up to wipe away her tears with his thumb, and offers her a small smile of his own. Then, in his own kind of promise - _I cannot see the future, I can make no guarantees except that I will_ ** _fight_** _for you, so I will fight with everything I am -_ he leans in and kisses her sweetly, one more time.

She squeezes his hands, blinks spiky damp lashes. "Holding on?" she asks, and everything is in the tremble of her voice.

"Not letting go," he promises, knowing, somehow, it is the only possible answer.

And even when they walk out the door, all traces of grief veiled behind a professional's mask, yards between them as they tend to different patients with different stories, he doesn't.


End file.
